


like a wildfire burning up inside my lungs (i'm burning up)

by ghosttotheparty



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Art, Bipolar Disorder, But also not, Comma overuse, Depression, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, M/M, Maandag 11:03, Recovery, You are not alone, again much of this is just me rambling, and im feeling emo so this is what you get, as usual, i really miss sander, kinda sad, references to other skam remakes kind of, sanders drawings, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosttotheparty/pseuds/ghosttotheparty
Summary: Sander has never broken like this before.orMaandag 11:03 from Sander's point of view
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Kudos: 29





	like a wildfire burning up inside my lungs (i'm burning up)

_Sometimes we break so beautiful_  
_And you know you're not the only one_

Sander has never broken like this before. 

He’s never felt his heart break from the inside out, like there’s a pressure pushing it open, like cracks spreading over ice. He’s never ached like this, like his body is longing for something that he can’t find. His arms feel too light, like they’re going to float off at any minute, his legs feel too loose, like he’s going to collapse on the ground in a pitiful heap. 

Which he does. 

He doesn’t sleep, even though he has his sleeping bag spread on the ground. He ends up curled in on himself next to it, his arms wrapped his legs, forehead pressed so hard to his knee that he can’t even feel it, one hand gripping his other wrist until his nails dig into the skin, almost drawing blood. He can’t feel that either. 

He stays there for hours, crying until there are no tears left in his eyes, until his face is sore and his lips dry and cracking. He stays there until his back hurts so much he can’t move, even when he wants to. There are ink stains on his fingertips and charcoal under his broken nails.

His throat is dry from hyperventilating. 

It hurts to breathe.

He feels like there’s something missing from him. Something important, like his lungs, his heart, something vital has been ripped from him with no warning. He feels like the only thing in the universe, like he’s all that’s left after the world has ended, even though there’s a blanket of feeling draped over him like a net. He can’t get it off, he gets tangled in it with every breath he takes, with every movement of his arms, his hands curled into tight fists, his shoulders hunched up high by his ears, his eyes squeezed shut tight. 

_But I only have myself to blame_  
_'Cause I'd still love you just the same_

He doesn’t remember when last he ate. 

He thinks it may have been at the hotel, a plate of pasta that he shared with Robbe, the taste clouded by weed smoke and mania, washed down with glasses of champagne. He didn’t eat the hospital, couldn’t make himself. Even as his stomach growled and ached, the sight of food made him feel sick. Still does. But he doesn’t have to worry about it here; it’s not like he brought any with him. 

He also hasn’t bathed or changed his clothes. Every time he runs his hands through his hair it sticks up and stays. He wonders if there’s charcoal or ink caught in it, a stark contrast against the slowly darkening white. As he lays on the floor, night cast across the room like a blanket, he tries not to think about how much he wishes he could wash it, how much he wishes he could take a shower and go about a day like anyone else. But he barely has the will to roll over. When he finally does, he can hear his joints and back crack from disuse. He shuts his eyes. But he can’t sleep. 

There’s too much happening in his head. He remembers every little thing he’s done, hasn’t done, needs to do, wants to do. He remembers surprising Robbe outside the hotel, remembers the way Robbe smiled and laughed. He remembers every homework assignment he hasn’t completed, every portrait and study he hasn’t even started, and he feels guilty for spending every second he could spend on those on drawings of Robbe. But he can’t imagine doing anything other than drawing him. When he finally can move, can make himself move, he ends up in the chair he spent hours in the day before, a backless chair that he sits on the edge of as he bends over the desk in front of him, his eyes only on the paper atop it. 

He took some time the day before, maybe an hour, maybe four, carefully taping and pinning his drawings to the walls of the room. Above the desk, pencil and charcoal portraits of him, closeups of his face with those beautiful eyes Sander loves so much, a drawing of the two of them laying in Robbe’s bed, an overhead shot that Sander imagines the scene would have looked like if they were in a movie. (He wishes sometimes, that they were. Then Robbe would show up, his night in shining armour, and Sander would be fine. Everything would be. But that’s not how real life is, and if he thinks about it too much, if he lets himself fantasize, he gets himself hurt. So Sander stays realistic.) He has photos of Robbe too, pictures Robbe had taken the night they broke into the pool, pictures Sander had snapped of him when he wasn’t looking, just because he looked so perfect. 

There are drawings around the room, too, messy sketches that Sander hates because they aren’t quite right, messy scribbles of black ink that don’t look like anything but felt good to get out of him, like the ink was flowing from his mind and heart to the end of the brush. He stumbles around glass jars and wooden shelves as he puts them up, leaning over old radiators that don’t seem to be working anymore. 

_For the love, for laughter, I flew up to your arms_  
_Is it a video?_

When he finally can text Robbe, he does, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is. Not an apology (though there’s one burning in his mind that he longs to say), not an excuse. A warning, a deterrent. As much as he wishes he could kiss him again, as much as he wishes he could hold him, be held by him, he can’t let himself do that to Robbe. He doesn’t think he can handle seeing Robbe’s reaction to seeing him in this state. Just the thought of it, of seeing the pain in Robbe’s eyes, the horror, the disgust, makes him feel sick, makes his stomach lurch and his head feel light. 

“Everything I do is Chernobyl. I can’t protect you from the fallout.”

The hint isn’t intentional. It’s just the only way he could think to explain it. 

He cries when he sends it, tears fogging his vision of the screen, the brightness blurring until he can’t read Robbe’s response, and he tips his head back, letting the tears fall from the corners of his eyes before looking back down and telling Robbe that he’s somewhere safe. Part of him just wants Robbe to know just that. That Sander isn’t out on the street. But he supposes later, when he thinks about it, maybe a part of Sander’s subconscious wants Robbe to find him. 

And he does. Of course.

He’s so gentle with Sander. Even as Sander pushes and shoves at him, tells him, his voice broken with unshed tears, to leave, to stay away. Robbe reaches out to him, trying to catch his arm or his sleeve, his arms still outstretched when Sander storms away back to his desk, hiding his face, and he knows Robbe is looking around the room. He’s embarrassed, he can feel his face on fire, every nerve in his body screaming at him to leave. But he doesn’t. And neither does Robbe. 

He comes closer, even though Sander feels like there are a million reasons he shouldn’t, and he crouches on the floor next to Sander. Sander can feel his eyes on him, and he doesn’t look back. Robbe reaches out, his voice so quiet he’s almost whispering to him, across scattered drawings and sketches on the desk, and touches him. 

_remember me_  
_remember me_  
_remember me under the sun_

Sander is tense. He doesn’t let himself turn his hand over, twist his fingers into Robbe’s, pull him in and bury his face in his neck. 

“I thought you’d…” 

Sander hurts. 

He wants to collapse, to fall to his knees and sob, to let himself break once and for all, to let Robbe see it. Maybe it’ll scare him off for good. 

“Look at me. Look at me.” 

There’s a slight smile on Robbe’s face, his eyes are wide and his gaze intense. He looks so small. But when Sander finally looks at him, looks him in the eye, he can barely look away. Robbe looks so desperate, so hopeful. He should be in school right now. 

Sander almost tells him, but Robbe’s eyes say that he wouldn’t care. 

Robbe says he loves him. 

And Sander doesn’t know how to respond. 

He’s heard it before, an _I love you_ that fades, an _I love you_ with a terms and conditions. 

But somehow at the same time, he believes him. There’s just the faint remainder of doubt, and then Robbe tugs at his hands, pulls him up, murmuring soft “Come on”s, until they’re standing in front of each other. 

He knows what Robbe is going to say before he says it, the little “Minute by minute.” It’s like it’s been said to him before. 

_O helga natt, du frälsning åt oss gav_

Robbe kisses him. 

Sander does his best to tell him everything he’s wanted to tell him, everything he could never say with words, everything he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say with words. 

And he lets himself break.

And Robbe holds him together, whispering to him as Sander’s legs give out and his hands clutch at him. 

This isn’t their first time loving each other. 

And it won’t be the last. 

But Sander doesn’t have to think about that right now.

_I breathe you in so sweet and powerful_  
_Like a wildfire burning up inside my lungs_  
_I'm burning up_

**Author's Note:**

> hi  
> i hope youre doing well  
> you can message me on tumblr (@ghosttotheparty) or Instagram (@tiireeddd) if you wanna chat or need someone to talk to  
> remember to eat something, drink water, and take your meds if you have any  
> be kind to yourself  
> <3


End file.
